Prince Charmless

1 | Taylor

Taylor

It feels like I’m forgetting something.

Not that it matters, of course. I pay lots of people lots of money to remember things for me. Still, I get the premonition that something has fallen through the bureaucratic cracks.

I scan my kitchen for answers, but find nothing out of the ordinary.

Next to me sits a steamy cup of coffee, on the counter stands my prized La Marzocco espresso machine, and by my feet lies Vinnie, the ancient basset hound I’ve been forced into taking care of.

It’s been a year since I’ve seen his owner, the longest I’ve gone since university without having my brother at arm’s length. He should be back any minute.

Just when I give up on remembering what I’ve forgotten, Tom barges through my kitchen door with his arms wide, marking the end of my career in dog-sitting.

His hair is shorter now, and he looks different in military fatigues.

And by different, I mean buffer. It’s a bit disheartening knowing your little brother could take you in a fight.

“You’re back,” I say through the howling. Vinnie must’ve figured he was dead.

Tom lifts the dog off the ground with a grunt to cradle him. “I missed you too, bud.”

Vinnie returns the sentiment with a lick to the face.

“How was the Air Force?” I ask. “Play with any guns?”

“I know how to fly a plane,” he says. “Do you know how to fly a plane?”

I don’t answer because he knows the answer is no.

Much to everyone’s disappointment, I never followed in the family’s footsteps of enlisting.

Tom’s a pushover and will do whatever Dad tells him, but I draw the line at war.

While I’ll be the first king to not have served, I will be the first to have a degree.

Tom rummages around my cabinets like he hasn’t eaten in months. “You didn’t have to plan a whole party. I didn’t think you cared about me that much.”

He’s right. I don’t care about him that much. I don’t think I care about anyone enough to throw a party for them.

“What are you talking about?”

“The party downstairs. There’s like, tables and chairs and people everywhere.” He flings a piece of deli meat he’s foraged for Vinnie to catch in his mouth.

“People everywhere? In this house?” I point to the ground as if Tom doesn’t know what house I’m talking about.

He fists a hungry hand into a cereal box. “Did I ruin the surprise?”

I search my brother’s face for any smirk he’s trying to hide but come up empty.

He looks as naive as he always does. As Tom shovels cornflakes into his mouth, the part of my brain that’s in charge of critical thinking concludes that something isn’t right.

I set my barely drunk coffee back on the counter.

Tom’s “Where are you going?” calls to me in the distance, but I’ve already left the kitchen.

On the rare occasion, I walk down these dark corridors to get to places neither Tom nor I use.

It always feels like I’m living in a waste of space.

Clément Manor is objectively beautiful, with its grand fireplaces and mahogany furniture, but sometimes I forget this part of the house exists.

As I hurry down the Italian marble stairs, I pass by a man cleaning a three-story window I might only look out of once a year.

This place is probably itching to be put to use.

Maybe it would like having a party. But an authorized one, obviously.

I pull open the foyer’s double doors to find strangers moving shit into my house.

String lights infest my walls like overgrown vines.

Gold chairs and tables with silver cutlery scatter my stone floors.

It’s not a party, but thirty intruders are setting up for one, including the tall woman carrying a pink binder walking in front of me.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask her.

She jumps like a spider when I barely put the back of my hand on her shoulder. I recoil like I’ve touched a hot stove. I don’t know why she’s surprised to see me. Last time I checked, I’m the one that lives here, not her.

She stares at me with wide eyes. Maybe she doesn’t understand. This is a bilingual country, so I ask a more polite question in French.

“Sorry,” she says in English. “You scared me. I’m putting place cards on tables.” The woman glances at her binder. “Look at that, here’s yours.” She half smiles and holds up a small card with Prince Taylor written on it in intricate calligraphy.

“For what?”

She furrows her brow like this should be obvious to me. “For the wedding?”

The wedding. I can’t tell if she’s asking or telling me. Hopefully, it’s not my wedding. I wouldn’t put it past my father to strap me down and finally force me to marry some insufferable viscountess.

The familiar rasp of Julien’s laugh echoing around the foyer reminds me of what wedding she’s talking about.

“Shit, is that today?” I ask. How could I forget? Actually, I forget a lot of things. I don’t know why I get so surprised every time I do.

“Uh, no. Tomorrow.” The woman turns to point to the mop of blond curls on the opposite side of the room. “Julien is—” I walk away before she can end her sentence. “Over there,” I hear her finish behind me. Right now, I couldn’t care less about the indignation in her voice.

“Taylor! How’s it going, man?” My friend puts a hand on my shoulder when I approach. I’ve known Julien Thibeaux all my life. He’s a little annoying, but so am I.

“Since when is this wedding thing happening at my house?”

He tilts his head. “Since...months ago? When Rachel and I were looking for venues, you were like, ‘Why don’t you have it at my place’ and I was like, ‘Really?’ and you were like, ‘I don’t care, just no cameras’.” Julien mocks my low voice as he recaps.

“I don’t remember that happening. And I don’t sound like that.”

“You sound exactly like that, and Rachel remembers it happening.” He cocks his head towards his soon-to-be-wife, who is talking with a group of what I’m assuming are decorators. “You’re one of my groomsmen. Rachel sent you a suit a couple of weeks back.”

Things are piecing together now. I suddenly remember my private secretary slapping a save-the-date on my desk and saying something along the lines of ‘Don’t forget about this.’

“I’m glad you’re here, actually,” he says. “I thought you’d care to meet someone.” Julien beckons the pink binder woman over. “This is Melina Ramirez. She’s our maid of honor.”

Why would I care about that?

“Mel’s making our website for the charity.”

Ah. That’s a bit more interesting.

“Hi,” she says and fidgets with the charm on her gold necklace.

I must’ve glossed over what she looked like while she was showing my name card.

Of course, this is the web developer he picked.

Julien always has to surround himself with beautiful people.

With an hourglass figure, full lips, and a height that almost rivals my friend’s, the woman looks like a damn supermodel.

Not that all web developers are inherently unattractive.

I guess what I’m saying is if you line up all the web developers in the world by attractiveness, she would be near the top of the list.

Julien gets my attention again by holding up his finger and fishing for something in his back pocket.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” he says.

I lean back when he gets down on one knee and presents a small velvet box.

“We’ve known each other for a while, and I just want to say—” He opens it to show two matching gold bands.

“You complete me,” he says slowly. “And I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to be my ring bearer. ”

Huh?

“I didn’t know you were such a fan of romance movies,” the woman says.

I stare down at my friend for a moment before saying, “Why me? Isn’t a child supposed to do that?”

“That’s why it’s funny.” He closes the box with a snap. “My brothers are already doing the speech. We thought you needed a job. There are no kids at the wedding.”

I hum. “I thought my job was giving you my house.”

Julien looks up at me with stupid puppy-dog eyes. He knows I’m going to say yes. He and sometimes my brother are the only people left living who can get me to do things I don’t want to do. Even so, it’s hard to say I followed all of Mom’s orders when she was still around.

“Get up,” I order as I swipe the box from Julien.

“But it’s tomorrow!”

All of us turn to Rachel, yelling near the entrance of the foyer.

Now that she’s dyed her hair blonde, Rachel and Julien look more like brother and sister than fiancé and fiancée.

She covers the bottom of the phone with her hand, groans into the ceiling, and then places it back on her ear.

“All of them?... There’s nothing they can do?

... Of course, I want a refund!” The walls are very tall in this room, so her unpleasant sound reverberates throughout the space.

“What’s wrong?” the web developer asks after Rachel hangs up.

What was her name? Julien called her Mel, I think. Melanie. Yes, that’s it.

Rachel’s eyes go glassy. “They’re all dead,” she says like a kid in a horror movie.

“What?” Melanie grabs her hands. “Who’s dead?”

She bores her head into her friend’s shoulder. “The flowers.”

Julien puts his hand on her back. “Our flowers for the wedding?”

“No, Jules, the flowers for my funeral.” Rachel gives him a sarcastic smile before dropping it back to a glower. “That was our planner. She said the floral shop’s refrigeration turned off in the night, and none of the gardenias made it. What the hell kind of deranged wedding doesn’t have flowers?”

Her gravelly tone doesn’t seem appropriate for this situation.

It’s only flowers, right? I’ve never understood the enthusiasm around planning a wedding.

For most people, the only real consequence of marriage is having to file your taxes differently, but everyone is still obsessed with the idea.

When my parents got married, they drew crowds of thousands outside the cathedral.

I’d rather get it over with at a courthouse, but I don’t think I’d be allowed to do that.

Rachel releases her grasp, then reclaims it around Julien. Melanie’s eyes dart around the room as if she’s searching for something, maybe an answer to the flower problem. She winces when she finds two of Rachel’s black mascara stains on her shirt.

“It’s, uh, okay,” Julien says, stroking her hair like petting a cat. “Can’t we hire another florist?”

“She said—” Rachel hiccups. “She said no florist can do a wedding in one day.”

Though sometimes it can be faked with plastic surgery, the one thing rich people can’t buy is time.

Julien looks at me. “There’s not like a royal florist you guys have on standby, right?”

I shake my head. That sounds like something the British would have. We’re not as pretentious as them, which is saying a lot because my family is very pretentious.

He takes Rachel’s shoulders and looks into her eyes. “We can have a wedding without flowers, right, babe? I mean, the important part is getting married.”

His fiancée swallows. “Yeah, I gue—”

“You know what, Rach,” Melanie interrupts. “Maybe your planner’s being dramatic. The flowers could just be a little wilted. I can go down there and check right now.”

I don’t know why she sounds so enthusiastic. Unless she can go back in time, there’s absolutely no way she can figure this out.

“What’ll you do if they’re not?” she asks.

Melanie pulls off the scrunchie from her wrist like she’s preparing for battle. “I got this, okay? I promise. I’ll find a meadow and pick the flowers myself if I have to. Just text me the address.”

Why do I feel like I’m going to have to be the one to solve this problem? Usually, I don’t waste my time worrying about something as insignificant as flowers, but Julien happens to be my one and only friend. That might sound pathetic to some, but friends are overrated, in my opinion.

I watch Melanie tie her hair back as if she doesn’t want it to get in the way of whatever adventure she thinks she’s going on.